The Songbird

by Val Wood

  The orchestra began to play, the curtain rose and the show began. Poppy glanced over her shoulder when she heard soft footsteps, thinking it was Anthony, but it was Bill Baloney, the comic and top of the bill. He was a short, plump man, made plumper with padding under his large checked trousers. He stood with his thumbs tucked under his red braces, and with a sombre expression watched the tumbler perform.

  ‘So who are you?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘A dancer?’

  Everybody asks if I’m a dancer, Poppy thought; nobody ever asks if I’m a singer. ‘Poppy Mazzini,’ she said. ‘I’m a singer and dancer.’

  ‘Oh,’ he muttered, his manner scornful, and moved back towards the dressing rooms.

  Poppy blinked and a stagehand standing near shook his head. ‘Take no notice,’ he mouthed. ‘He thinks he’s a star!’

  Jack Bradshaw again announced her as a rising star come fresh from northern England especially to entertain them, and Poppy ran onto the stage, her skirts fluttering. She gave a twirl round the stage and then broke into a song about sweethearts pledging their love beneath a silver moon. She followed with a romantic rendition of a popular love song, and finished with the mazurka, during which the audience clapped and stamped their feet and shouted ‘Hoy!’

  She bowed and ran off, but was urged on again by Jack Bradshaw to take another bow. ‘Good girl,’ he said, as she ran back to the wings. ‘They really liked that.’ He seemed to have forgotten that he had asked her to sing something saucy.

  She followed the same routine on Tuesday and Wednesday and on Thursday, shortly before the evening performance, someone tapped sharply on the dressing room door. ‘Are you decent, ladies?’ a man’s voice called. The Terry Sisters both grinned and called in unison, ‘When were we ever decent ladies?’ whilst Nancy shouted, ‘Wait,’ and pulled a robe round her bare shoulders.

  Poppy rose from her stool. She was dressed and ready for the stage. She opened the door and greeted Dan Damone who was standing with three bouquets of flowers in his hands. ‘For my darling girls,’ he said extravagantly, giving a bouquet to Poppy and one to each of the Terry Sisters, who both put up their cheeks to be kissed. Poppy blushed and thanked him.

  ‘I’ve been getting wonderful reports,’ he said. ‘About all of you. And I shall take you all out to supper after the show, so don’t go dashing away to your digs.’ He turned to Poppy, and patted her under the chin with his hand, then winked and spoke softly. ‘I need to talk to you, Poppy. Don’t discuss any future plans with Bradshaw. I’ve things in mind for you.’ He turned to leave, putting his hand on the door. ‘I’ll see you a little later. Good evening, Miss Martell.’ He nodded politely to Nancy who looked at him with distaste and didn’t answer.

  Poppy felt elated. Dan had heard about her! How? Who had been to see her at the theatre who knew Dan? I know so little about what goes on. I’m as green as grass. But, she thought as a few minutes later she waited in the wings once more, I must do my very best tonight for he’ll be out there watching me. He’ll want to know whether I’ve forgotten that I’m a grocer’s daughter, and am now a music hall performer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Dan had booked a supper table at Orlando’s for the four of them. By the smell of the coffee, Poppy was transported back to the time when Dan, Ronny and Ena had come to her father’s coffee shop in Hull, though Orlando’s was an intimate restaurant and not a grocery. Now wasn’t the time to mention it, however, as she realized that this was to be a business meeting. She looked round at the other diners, and hoped that Anthony might be there. But he wasn’t and she reflected that it was odd that Dan hadn’t wanted to see him as well. After all, he was Anthony’s agent too.

  Ronny and Ena both looked very smart, though to Poppy’s surprise, they still wore their stage make-up, though they had toned down their eyes a little. Ronny was wearing a high-necked classical dress in red and black, with a skirt which just showed her button boots, a black waistcoat and a red toque hat, whilst Ena wore pale blue muslin, cut low and trimmed with pearls, and a pearl necklace wound through her hair. Round her shoulders she wore a chinchilla wrap, which Poppy thought looked out of place in a small Italian restaurant. They shouted ’stage’ from their very essence.

  Poppy knew she looked young and immature beside them. Before coming out of the theatre, she had washed her face clean of make-up, and brushed her thick hair, using a ribbon to keep it in place. She wore a plain long skirt and peplum jacket in pale grey wool. But she was glad that she had dressed modestly, for some of the other diners looked rather disapprovingly at the unconventional Terry Sisters, especially when Ena lit up a small cigar.

  Orlando brought them each a dish of hot tomato pie and another of crisp salad, produced a jug of red wine and murmured, ‘Buon appetito.’

  ‘What I suggest,’ Dan said, as he poured the wine for each of them, ‘is that the Terry Sisters stay on at Bradshaw’s right through the Christmas season until January.’

  ‘Gawd, Dan. We’ll freeze to death in Brighton!’ Ena complained. ‘Can’t we go back to London?’

  ‘I can’t get you a booking, darling. I’ve been trying for weeks. Jack Bradshaw wants you, the audiences like you, what more can you ask?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Ronny said hurriedly. ‘People still come to Brighton in the winter. We’ve got good diggings. Johnny’ll be pleased to have us stay on. Who else will be playing, do you know?’

  ‘I’ve heard that Bill Baloney’s got a contract until the end of January and Jack’s booked a magician. Oh, and a ventriloquist.’

  Ena raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, well, they’ll be good company for each other! And what about Tony Marino? How long is he staying? He always brings people in.’

  Dan took a drink of wine. ‘He’s moving on at the end of this week. He’s doing a tour of south coast towns, a week at each until Christmas.’

  ‘We should have his luck,’ Ena said sarcastically, her mouth turned down.

  ‘We should have his talent!’ was Ronny’s rejoinder.

  ‘Oh,’ Poppy murmured. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Mmm?’ Dan turned to her. ‘Anthony doesn’t stay long in one place,’ he explained. ‘He likes short contracts. Doesn’t like to be tied down. He’s off to Bournemouth next week.’

  Who shall I talk to, Poppy thought? He’s been so understanding and helpful. And besides, he’s younger than the others. They’re all so much older than me.

  Dan and the Terry Sisters swapped theatre gossip whilst they were eating and Poppy listened intently to the tales of who had done what, who was popular and who had died on stage. She was aghast at this until she realized that they didn’t mean that the performers had actually dropped dead, but that their acts were not well received and they were not asked back.

  ‘So, Poppy!’ Dan turned to her. Ena and Ronny had both gone off to the ladies’ powder room to ‘freshen up’ as they described it. ‘How has the week gone? Do you think you can stand this kind of life, or is it too early to say?’

  ‘I was very nervous to start with,’ she told him. ‘But I think I’ve got over that, or at least I will. But I’m unsure about what is expected of me. Mr Bradshaw asked me to sing something saucy, only I didn’t and I don’t think he noticed.’ She thought of the old lady who had congratulated her and wished her good luck in her career. ‘And, well, I want to be a singer of romantic songs, and I think I have the voice for them, but I’ve been told that the audiences want something merry.’ She looked at him for reassurance. ‘So I don’t quite know what to do.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ he said quietly. ‘To watch and assess you. And you were good tonight. Very good, and the audience liked you. This is what I propose.’ He leaned towards her and lowered his voice still further. ‘I’d like you to stay on here until the end of November, which is what? – another five, six weeks? You’ll gain stage experience, and then I’m hoping to get you a small role in a Christmas pantomime. That will be theatre work, not music hall.’ He gazed at her. ‘What do yo
u think?’

  ‘That sounds exciting,’ she said. ‘Will I be singing in the pantomime?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. But in this profession you always need good footwork.’ He looked round as Ena and Ronny came across the room. ‘But don’t discuss it with anyone just yet,’ he murmured to her. ‘There’s a good deal of jealousy about, even with people we think we know, and I have yet to do a deal with a theatre manager.’

  Ronny’s face was taut, as if she was cross about something and trying not to show it, but Ena was flushed and defiant and as she approached the table she casually ran her fingers across the back of Dan’s neck. He started and shrugged them off, glancing up at her, then looking away.

  Goodness, Poppy thought, observing the interaction. I do believe Ena is sweet on Dan, but he doesn’t return the feeling. She glanced at Ronny, who was glowering at Ena. Perhaps Ronny is jealous, or perhaps Dan prefers Ronny. She looked from one to another, trying to assess the atmosphere between them and feeling only tension.

  ‘Well, ladies. Time you were all tucked up in bed.’ Dan called for the bill and rose from the table. ‘It’s been good to be here and see how successful you are. Look in tomorrow’s paper,’ he added. ‘There’ll be a review of the show. Grazie mille, Orlando,’ he said to the proprietor, who was waiting with their coats. ‘A perfect meal as always. Do you think you can get a cab for the ladies?’

  ‘It’s not far. We can walk,’ Ena said, but Dan, without looking at her, said quickly, ‘No, I wouldn’t dream of letting you walk at this time of night, and I’m too dead tired to escort you. A cab it is.’ He fished in his pocket for coins to pay the driver.

  Poppy bit her lip as Dan helped her on with her jacket and she looked up at him. There was more she would have liked to ask. He hadn’t answered her question as to whether she should continue with her love songs; the idea of pantomime appealed to her and she wondered which theatre it would be, and which town. She had seen one a few years ago, a comic opera of Dick Whittington. ‘Erm,’ she said hesitatingly. ‘What about – I mean, who will pay me?’ She blushed as she asked, but she had to know. Her father’s money was getting low.

  ‘Oh! Sorry, Poppy. Yes, of course.’ He was flustered. ‘You must think me hopeless, and I am; that’s why I keep Dora.’ He took a slip of notepaper out of his pocket. ‘I’ve negotiated with Bradshaw. He’ll pay you every week. Don’t let him forget! Dear girls,’ he said to the Terry Sisters. ‘Keep Jack up to scratch, will you? Make sure he pays on the dot every Saturday.’

  ‘As if we’d let him forget!’ Ronny said scathingly. ‘Some of these managers think we don’t need to eat.’

  Orlando came back. He’d been outside to whistle for their transport. ‘Thank you for coming, ladies. Buona notte,’ he said to Poppy. ‘Please come again.’

  ‘Si.’ She smiled. ‘Grazie. Arrivederci.’

  The three of them travelled in an awkward silence. Poppy could feel the tension between Ronny and Ena and although she made a few feeble attempts at conversation, there was no response from either of them, so she gave up and stared out of the cab window at the white surf lashing the shore.

  Just before they reached Mrs Johnson’s house, Ena turned to Poppy. ‘So what’s Dan got lined up for you? Are you staying until January? Or is he sending you on elsewhere? Bradshaw usually likes to change the bottom of the bill acts every week.’

  Poppy felt sure that Ena didn’t mean the remark to be derogatory, yet that was how it sounded to her. ‘Until the end of November,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I don’t know what else after that.’ And if I did, Dan told me not to say, she thought. So I won’t.

  Ronny seemed to guess that she was hurt. ‘You won’t always be at the bottom of the bill,’ she said kindly as the cab drew up outside Mrs Johnson’s gate. ‘You’re doing just fine. You’ve a lovely voice and a great stage presence.’

  Ena swished up the path towards the house, but Ronny hung back, waiting for Poppy. ‘But I’m not sure if you’re right for the music hall,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Poppy stood stock-still and looked at her. ‘Not right?’

  ‘Well, for the music hall you need to sharpen up a bit; play to the audience, you know – tease the men, as well as pleasing the women.’

  ‘Be a bit cheeky?’ Poppy said with a sinking heart.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. A bit of a wink, a wiggle of your hips, a glimpse of an ankle, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy murmured . . . ‘I see. Thank you.’

  ‘On the other hand.’ Ronny paused and looked at her before entering the house. There was a sea mist hovering about them, and Ronny’s make-up was starting to run. ‘On the other hand, if I’m honest, you’ll do well just as you are. You look young, fresh and appealing.’ She sighed and pushed the door open. A smell of kippers and coffee drifted out. ‘Which is, of course, exactly what you are.’

  Mrs Johnson was in her parlour, dressed in a wool dressing gown over her nightdress. Her hair was unpinned and hanging down her back, though she wore a pink cotton cap on her head. ‘Would you like tea, ladies,’ she asked, ‘or chocolate? The kettle’s hon the boil.’

  Ena didn’t answer her but immediately started haranguing Ronny about something she had said during supper. ‘Don’t you tell me,’ Ronny snapped back. ‘Just watch your own language and what you’re doing when we’re out. Don’t forget that people know us!’ She shook a finger at Ena. ‘It’s easy enough to get a bad reputation.’

  ‘Now, girls,’ Mrs Johnson said. ‘Save your harguments for the morning. Tea, dear?’ she asked Poppy, who was edging out of the room. Poppy shook her head. ‘Take a cup up with you, then,’ Mrs Johnson suggested. ‘I’ve just made it, so it’s nice and ’ot. Shame to waste it.’

  Poppy gave a weak smile and came back in as Ronny said, ‘You know you’re wasting your time with him! Keep up with little tricks like that and we’ll lose him as an agent.’

  ‘Little tricks! What little tricks?’ Ena shrieked, and Poppy cringed and tried to keep her eyes on Mrs Johnson as she poured the tea, and not look at Ena or Ronny.

  ‘Everybody saw you!’ Ronny hollered back. ‘Running your fingers round his neck! God, how embarrassing!’

  ‘I did not!’ Ena whirled about. ‘Did you see me, Poppy? Did I do anything untoward? There, see! Poppy didn’t see anything and she was sitting right next to him. All I did was make a friendly gesture and if anybody wants to read something into that . . .!’ She bent her head and fumbled in her bag for a cheroot, and when she raised her head Poppy saw that there were tears in her eyes. She lit the small cigar and inhaled. ‘God,’ she muttered resentfully, ‘but you’re a bitch sometimes, Veronica.’

  Ronny stared at Ena, and Poppy took the teacup and saucer from Mrs Johnson who sighed and shook her head. ‘It’s for your own good, Ena,’ Ronny said at last. ‘You know he’s not interested. Leave the poor chap alone.’

  Ena gazed into the low fire and drew on the cigar. ‘I will have coffee, Johnny,’ she said, her voice grating. ‘Two sugars.’

  ‘I’ll say good night, then,’ Poppy said quietly. ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Johnson exclaimed. ‘I nearly forgot! Some letters came in the second post.’ She went to her sideboard and picked up two envelopes and handed them to Poppy.

  ‘Thank you.’ Poppy looked down at the writing. One was from her father; she recognized his bold style. The other she wasn’t sure about. She’d open them upstairs, privately. Not down here in this bitter atmosphere. ‘Good night.’

  Only Mrs Johnson replied. Ronny nodded her head, but Ena continued to gaze into the fire.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ Poppy heard her murmur. ‘I just can’t help it.’

  How sad, Poppy thought as she climbed the stairs. She loves him, and I suppose he loves someone else. ‘I can’t stop loving him,’ she hummed softly, then, ‘I can’t stop loving you,’ and rubbed the envelopes between her fingers. Then she took a breath. Suppose this is from Charlie! Oh,
please! Let it be from Charlie! She took the last few steps two at a time, almost tripping over her skirt.

  The fire in the grate was very low, but she riddled it with the poker and put another piece of coal on it. Then she lit the gas mantle on the ceiling lamp and adjusted the thin chain so that it burned brighter. She sat on the floor near the fire and opened not her father’s letter but the other one. It was from Charlie.

  ‘Dearest Poppy,’ it began and she almost swooned. ‘Dearest Poppy,’ she breathed. ‘I’m coming to Brighton on Saturday afternoon with some other fellows, and shall come to see you at the theatre in the evening. I’ve told these chaps about you and they can’t wait to see you, and neither, of course, can I. Your good friend, Charlie. PS Perhaps we can have supper afterwards?’

  ‘Oh!’ She wrapped her arms round herself and squeezed. ‘He’s coming. He’s coming! He can’t wait to see me! Oh, bliss. Bliss!’

  She got up and danced round the small room, holding his letter. ‘He’s told his friends about me! And he wants to take me to supper. We could go to Orlando’s.’ Oh, maybe not. He isn’t very keen on Italian food. But somewhere nice. She cast around in her head for somewhere they could go. I’ll ask Anthony, she thought. He’ll know.

  She gave a deep satisfied sigh and then returned to sit by the fire and read the letter from her father. It was short and to the point. He was well, he said, and things were much the same at home. Nan and Lena were having their usual disagreements. At least, he said, Lena was having disagreements with Nan. He’d had to chastise Albert about leaving the door unlocked and there had been a short note from Tommy, who was in the Baltic, but no more news from him than that.

  He concluded by saying he hoped she was enjoying her new life and added jokingly that he was expecting her to become a star of fame and fortune so that she could look after her pa when he became old and decrepit.

  There seemed to be an air of wistfulness about the letter, yet she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It was cheerful enough, but there was something between the lines, some pathos underlying his breezy words.